


bucharest

by WayDownWeGo



Series: need the sun to break [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, and he tells her stories of everything he's done and seen since arriving in Europe, and they walk around Bucharest at night, in which a girl stumbles across a dude with a dope ass prosthetic arm, one night stand....?, we shall see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9008164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayDownWeGo/pseuds/WayDownWeGo
Summary: “It’s nice meeting someone from home over here.” His smile fades a little and that sad look starts to bloom again. “Um. What brought you all the way to Bucharest?”“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I guess I’m just hiding for a while.”He lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head at his feet. “I understand that.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first story to post on ao3, and i hope you guys enjoy it! please feel free to leave feedback, i'm always eager to learn ways to improve my writing! xo

He’s sitting across the bar in a corner booth all alone. Just like he is every night. I never plan on watching him, but that’s what always ends up happening.  
I feel the need to point out that I am not an alcoholic, I just like to come here with my journal because it’s secluded and off the main street and relatively quiet. The lights are dim and it’s a good way to be in public but still feel like I have privacy. Smoke hangs in the air near the ceiling in the far corner where the group of old Romanian men are smoking. Of all places, I’m not sure why I chose Bucharest for my vacation. All I knew was that I needed to get away from The City That Never Sleeps and sleep, and have some time to myself to write. Yet here I am in this quiet dive bar, not writing, and staring at the man in the booth.   
He sits there every night, not really drinking his beer, but not really ignoring it either. He only orders the one, and he sips on it while he reads and writes in this little journal, very similar to my own. He runs the tip of his index finger up and down the side of his glass with the rest of his fingers curled into a fist resting on the polished wooden table. When I first saw him, his whiskers were short and lazy like a typical 5 o’clock shadow. But over the past week and a half, it’s turned into longer scruff that hides the sharp angle of his jawline. His full lips are perpetually in a pout, and paired with those ever-furrowed brows and sad blue eyes, he looks like a pathetic puppy. Every once in a while, the waitress will go over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he’ll push his book aside and look up at her, smile politely, nod, and she would leave. The corners of his eyes would crinkle a little when he smiled, watching her walk away as if to make sure she was gone; then he would pull his journal back out and continue reading.  
After a few days, my journal entries had become less words and more sketches. Mostly of him. The booth he sits in. The intensity of his gaze as he stares at the pages of that journal. His cleft chin and strong jaw. His dark hair that nearly brushes his shoulders. Little pieces that catch my attention.   
Before I know it, the bar is closing and the waitress is giving out the last call in Romanian. I don’t understand it, but I can guess that’s what she’s saying. I close my book and stick it in my bag. As I walk out onto the street to get a lung-full of the fresh night air before starting the long walk back to my hotel, I see him standing on the corner of the street waiting to cross. In a fraction of a second, I’ve made up my mind.   
“Hi,” I say quietly. At first I worry that I wasn’t loud enough, but he quickly glances over to me and smiles. I then curse mentally because shit, what if he doesn’t speak English and I just end up making an ass of myself?  
“Hello.” His voice isn’t what I was expecting. I’d thought it would be rougher, but it’s smooth like honey. It’s also unaccented.  
“You’re here every night,” I say, mentally smacking myself for being unable to think of anything original.   
“So are you,” he smirks lightly.   
I’m surprised he noticed me, honestly. Despite both of us seeming to be the wary introvert type. “Not for much longer. I’m just visiting.”  
“Oh? From where?”  
“New York.”   
His smile lights up. “That’s where I’m from!”  
“Really? Small world,” I smile, and he returns it genuinely.  
“It’s nice meeting someone from home over here.” His smile fades a little and that sad look starts to bloom again. “Um. What brought you all the way to Bucharest?”  
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I guess I’m just hiding for a while.”  
He lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head at his feet. “I understand that.”  
There is a lapse in conversation. “You write?” I ask, motioning to the journal in his right hand. His left is in his jacket pocket.   
“Uh, kind of. I don’t know. Not really, no.” A moment of slightly awkward silence. “But you do.” He seems confident in his observation.  
I nod. “Yeah. I do.”  
“What do you write about?” He asks.   
“Whatever comes to mind. Fleeting feelings. Intimate places. Familiar faces. Typical starving author things,” I say lightheartedly.   
“I guess that’s kind of what I write about, too.”  
“Yeah?”  
He nods. He looks down the street, watching the cars drive by, me watching him, and we stand, having reached somewhat of an understanding between each other. There’s a spell of silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s peaceful.   
“Hey,” I say suddenly. “I know it’s late, and we don’t even know each other’s names, but do you wanna go for a walk? Maybe show me some of Bucharest by night?”   
He smiles softly and looks me in the eyes. “Yeah, I do.” He holds out his left elbow casually, keeping his hand in his pocket, and I take it gently. He’s more muscular than I thought. His arm seems as hard as a rock beneath his thick jacket. We walk down the street a ways before he winds us around the block and down another quiet street.   
“How long have you been here?” I ask. He seems to know the language pretty well.   
“Close to two years, maybe.”  
“Have you gone to that bar every night?” I chuckle, and he smiles at the ground a tad bit bashfully.  
“Maybe. But you have too, for the past week.”  
“Oh, so sad man can joke?” I giggle, and he raises an eyebrow at me.  
“’Sad man,’ huh?” He says, and nods to himself. “I see.”  
“I’m just kidding. It’s just your face.”  
“Thanks.” He deadpans before he laughs. A genuine laugh. It’s charming.  
“No! I mean, your eyes… They make you look sad sometimes. And you have these pouty lips. You look like a sad puppy all the time. But not in a bad way,” I fumble over my words nervously.  
“Ah. I see,” he says, and for a moment I think I’ve offended him, but then he shoots me a glance out of the corner of his eye and smirks. We laugh together and I look up to see his pretty white teeth. He’s so handsome when he’s happy, despite how endearing his lost puppy look is. “Well, here we are.” He stops and nods towards the empty marketplace in front of us. Abandoned produce stands line the sidewalks, left by their owners for the night.  
“Is it always this busy?” I joke, and he snorts.  
“You’re funny,” he says, a new expression adorning his face. Like he is trying to read me. I wonder what he sees.   
“Is this where you buy your produce?” I ask.  
“Every morning,” he nods.  
“So you come here every morning, you go to the bar every night. What about during the day? What do you do?” He doesn’t answer right away. His teeth rake over his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” I say quickly, but he shakes his head.   
“It’s alright. I’m not sure what I do, actually. I’ve been here for a year and all I’ve done is establish a boring routine. I don’t really have a real job. The old lady down the hall in my building pays me to help her. It’s not much, but I get by.”  
I sigh, relieved that he’s comfortable enough to be open with me. That’s more of an answer than I was expecting to get out of him. I can see the layers falling away. This smile that he’s giving me is more than the polite façade that he shows to the waitress—it’s more genuine. “That’s kind of you.”  
He shrugs. “I just figured it was the decent thing to do. I don’t want her to pay me, but she insists.” He’s quiet for a moment, hesitating, then looks at me with a grin on his lips. “She taught me to crochet.”  
I smile, and shake my head at the stars.  
“Oh, come on, she’s sweet and it’s nice to spend time with someone with as much life experience as—“ he stops himself.   
“No, it’s not that,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect. “I crochet, too.” He looks at me quickly in disbelief and we both burst out laughing.  
“That’s amazing,” he mutters to himself, and I smile broadly. We walk around the empty stalls in silence, and I wonder what he’s thinking behind those steely, gunmetal blue eyes.   
“So I’m not from here. I’ve only been to Europe twice before, and it was years ago, when my parents took some other kids and I on a kind of school trip to Italy, Greece, Spain, and Morocco. You’ve been here for two whole years. What’s it like?” I ask. He smiles and takes a deep breath.   
“It was kind of stressful at first. I didn’t really speak Romanian very well—or at all—but I know Russian pretty well, so it wasn’t too difficult to pick up. I wasn’t always here though. I only settled down here probably a year ago. I moved around a lot for the first year,” he explains.  
We walk around the empty market and down more side streets, avoiding the busy streets with lots of traffic while he tells me about those first six months. He tells me how he explored the narrow streets in Rome, looking up at buildings that were more ancient than any he had ever seen before. Once, he slept in a park in Croatia just soaking up the sun. He window-shopped the high fashion couture shops in Paris and thought about what he would like best, what he would look good in and what he’d buy if he could afford any of it. He sat on the riverbank of the Danube and wrote in his journal. He learned how to pair cheese with wine from a sad, rich woman who paid him to trim the hedges at her big home that was full of things, but still made him feel empty. He told me about the sweet old woman who taught him to crochet in exchange for his company, and how she paid him to run errands for her, like getting her produce from that market and helping her with household tasks that were getting difficult with age. He smiled at the children that would wave hello and grin broadly at him, even though they’d never seen him before in their life. He liked how their pure and innocent kindness made him feel afterwards. He listened to an old veteran in Germany tell him about the horrors of World War II and how he was lucky that he didn’t have to live through it, how he regretted many of the horrible things he had done while fighting on the ‘wrong side.’ He saw Stonehenge, and Buckingham Palace, and the changing of the guard. He even saw the aurora borealis in Norway.   
While he was telling his stories, I listened intently. He’d lived my dream. Quiet travelling and unique experiences with locals. I would comment here and there, but I was perfectly happy just listening to what he had to say. Everything he was saying came from the heart.  
“So is that what you write in your journal? All of the amazing things you’ve seen?” I ask, and he nods.  
“A little.”  
“What about the rest?”  
“Things I try to remember. From a long time ago.” He’s silent again. “I keep talking to you like you’re my shrink.”  
“It’s okay. I like listening to you.” He stops walking and we stop at a corner. I glance around and realize that we’ve made a big loop back to the bar where we started. “Is it the same for you?”  
He smiles. “Yeah. You’re more interesting than you let on. I’ve been talking this whole time, but it’s your story that I want to hear the rest of.”  
“Oh?”  
“You have this… I don’t know. Air of mystery about you, I guess,” he smiles, and I feel my cheeks flushing a little. He glances at the watch on his wrist. It looks antique. “Shit. It’s four thirty.”  
Suddenly, the exhaustion hits me and I yawn. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you out so long.”  
“I’m the one that was going on the whole time. I should walk you home. Where are you staying?” I tell him the name of the hotel and he sighs. “That’s quite a ways away… Um. You could stay with me tonight. If you want to.” He reaches his right hand up and squeezes the back of his neck nervously. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be forward.”  
I smile and nod. “That would be nice.”  
“Are you sure? You don’t have to. It’s not very nice. It’s pretty lousy, actually,” he warns, but I nod anyway. Strangely, I feel like I can trust him, despite only really knowing him for three hours. 

When we get to his apartment, he pauses outside of his door. “Um, before I unlock the door, there’s something you should see.” I furrow my brows in confusion, but he only gives me an enhanced version of that sad puppy look before sighing. He pulls his left hand out of his pocket (for the first time tonight, I realize) only to reveal a gloved hand. He uses his right hand to pull at the glove, and I feel my jaw drop in shock when it comes off. I quickly snap it shut again so as not to be rude.   
It’s metal. His hand is metal. It’s shiny and silver, but the prosthetic fingers move as fluidly as if they were his real hand. I’ve never seen this kind of prosthetic before. They’re molded to look like actual fingers, not robotic appendages. In fact, it’s so finely sculpted that it looks more like he’s wearing some kind of metal glove over his own flesh-and-bone hand. He makes a fist and there are soft clinks as the fingertips touch his palm.   
“I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier,” he says, shame clear in his tone, expression, and overall body language. He looks down at his feet and drops his hand to his side.  
“You don’t have to be sorry. It makes no difference,” I say, reaching for his left, metal hand and taking it in mine. It’s cold to the touch and smooth like glass. “What happened?”  
“A climbing accident. Nasty fall down a cliff. Don’t worry, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” he hurries, catching a glimpse of my shocked expression. “I mean, aside from the doctors having to amputate my arm at the shoulder and a, uh, concussion, I was fine. It’s okay.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“It’s ancient history,” he says, smiling halfheartedly. I yawn again and he blinks, snapping back to the present. “I’ll open the door now, since you haven’t been scared away.”  
“It’ll take a lot more than a badass prosthetic arm to scare me away,” I joke, and he laughs genuinely.  
“I’m glad.” He pushes open the door. “But this shithole just might do it.”  
He was seriously downplaying his home. It’s not half as bad as he made it out to be. It’s still definitely shabby, but in a comfortable way. It feels like a home, kept warm by a small softly tinkling space heater. The wallpaper is yellowed, and is made up of an old floral print that’s probably an original from when the building was built. It’s only one room, and the bed is just a mattress on the floor in the corner. The furniture is mismatched and a little dingy, and the only things that look new are the cooking utensils in the cracked vase on the kitchen counter by the stove. I can tell that he’s putting things together. That he’s trying. It’s becoming a home.  
And yet… It feels like things are packed away. Waiting, almost. Like he could grab the backpack by the mattress, throw a few items in it, and go, leaving everything else behind. He’s living timidly. Restlessly.  
“This is not nearly as bad as you had me thinking,” I say, and he chuckles.   
“I’m glad you think so.”  
“It’s actually kind of homey. I like it.”  
“You don’t have to lie,” he smirks, and I laugh.   
“I’m not.”   
He rolls his eyes at that, but smiles nonetheless. “I, uh, don’t have a couch. Obviously. So you could sleep on the mattress and I could take the armchair for the night. I don’t mind.” He squeezes the back of his neck again with his real hand.   
“I don’t mind sharing if you don’t,” I say, and he looks up quickly, a pink tinge in his cheeks.   
“I mean, if you want to, I guess. Um…” He trails. “Oh! Let me, uh—“ he quickly sidesteps around me and walks over to the small dresser shoved haphazardly in a corner opposite the mattress. He opens a drawer and fishes around for a moment before pulling out a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers. “You can sleep in these, if you want.” He holds them out and I take them, smiling graciously.   
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome. You can change in the bathroom, through there,” he says, motioning towards the only door other than the one we came in through, which had a peculiar window of frosted glass in the center. I duck through it and close it behind me, quickly slipping out of my coat and jumper and putting on his shirt. I slide my jeans and boots off and pull on the boxers over my underwear. The shirt is really big on me, and a little stretched out in the chest area on top of that, like it was tight on him when he wore it. Which is understandable, considering how buff he is. There’s a hole in the armpit on the left side and another small one at the bottom along the hem. But it’s very soft from daily wear and tear. It’s comforting.  
When I step out of the bathroom, he’s taken off his coat and has traded his jeans and boots for crew socks and basketball shorts, which actually look a bit strange on him for some reason. Maybe because all I’ve ever seen him wear is jeans, military boots, leather jackets, and Henley shirts—like some sort of tough hipster or something. But he’s still wearing the sweater from earlier.   
“Would you mind if I took this off?” He asks as he tugs on it, and I shake my head, slightly confused by the strange request. He nods quickly and takes another sharp breath, and that’s when I realize why he’s nervous. His arm. He pulls the sweater over his head to reveal probably the most muscular torso I have ever physically seen, and will probably ever see in my life. But his entire left arm is metal, built to match the muscle mass in his right arm. Or vice versa. It connects to his chest at the shoulder, with shiny, pink scar tissue grown over the edges, keeping it connected. It looks like very advanced technology. Very expensive-looking. Maybe that’s why he has to live like this. Maybe he spent all of his money on the prosthesis. But the most interesting part was the red star built into the shoulder of it. Like a metal tattoo.   
“The star is interesting.” I say. “Does it mean anything?”   
“I’m a Commie,” he deadpans. My eyes widen in surprise. “Only joking, only joking. Not really,” he laughs. I roll my eyes and laugh with him. “I think it was the doctor’s way of trying to make me think losing my arm would be cooler than it really was. I don’t know who he thought he was kidding,” he says dryly.   
“I like it, actually,” I say, biting my lower lip and grinning.   
“Really?”  
“It’s pretty badass. And advanced. I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, walking over and taking hold of it, lifting it up so I could examine it more closely. It’s not as heavy as I had imagined it would be, likely because it’s probably hollow. It’s not as smooth and shiny as the back of the hand that I looked at earlier. There are scratches in it. Tiny dents. Wear and tear, but I don’t know what from. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, it looks like one of them is from some kind of blade.  
“Are you ready? To go to sleep, I mean.” He reaches his flesh fist up and rubs at his eye tiredly.  
“Yeah, sure,” I say, walking over to his mattress on the ground. It’s a full-sized. I make myself comfortable and pull the blankets over me. I realize that there is only one pillow there, though. I make sure to only take up half of it.  
But when he lies down after switching off the lights, he doesn’t share it. He positions himself with his back to me, using his right arm as a pillow tucked under his head.   
“Hey,” I say, and he turns his head back to look at me, a lock of dark hair in his face. “You can share the pillow if you want, I don’t mind.” He smiles, but shakes his head.  
“I’m okay.”  
“Uh. We never got each other’s names,” I say, the realization coming to me. He chuckles and rolls onto his back, laughing at the ceiling. I join in, propping myself up on my right elbow to face him.   
“I’m James.”  
“Emily.”  
“That’s a nice name,” he says, eyes flickering up to meet mine. The moonlight coming in through the window catches them and for a moment they’re glowing a beautiful silvery blue. I swallow and smile at him.   
“Thank you, James. Yours is nice, too.” He smiles, and I lie back down. We both lay there on our backs, side by side, staring at the ceiling.   
I feel heat from his body radiating into mine, despite the few inches between us. My heart is thrumming wildly in my chest, and I pray that he can’t hear it.   
I lay there for what feels like ages, unable to fall asleep, suddenly wide-awake. I find myself acting on impulse.  
I roll onto my elbow again, and James looks at me, a bit of surprise on his face. Before I lose my nerve, I lean down and press my lips to his. He freezes for a moment, probably as surprised by my actions as I am. But moments later he catches up, and his lips begin moving with mine. I brush his hair back with my left hand, not breaking the kiss. He feels rusty, like he hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time. That’s hard for me to believe, considering how attractive he is. But when I think about what a solemn man he is, and how insecure he acted about his arm, I realize that my instinct is probably right.   
I move to straddle his hips, leaning down and taking his face in my hands, feeling the scruff on his cheeks against my palms. His right hand goes to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, angling my head as he takes control despite being the one on the bottom. I feel an exhilaratingly cold touch on my hip as his left hand hesitantly makes contact with my skin under his shirt. I shiver into his touch and lean even farther down, pressing my chest against his, reveling in the variance in temperatures from his body heat to the cool metal of his arm. He rolls us over quickly, his metal hand sliding down the side of my hip, down my thigh, and hooking behind the back of my knee. He coaxes my leg up and I hook my ankles against his lower back, locking him in place and pulling him closer to me with my legs. He breaks the kiss and moves to press kisses to my neck, along my jugular to my collarbone, where he bites gently, teasing. My fingers grip his hair and pull lightly, encouraging. He lets out a ragged breath and I shudder as his teeth scrape across tender skin on my neck before he nips lightly at my earlobe. A soft moan escapes my lips, and his hips press into mine roughly, suddenly, like a spasm out of his control. I buck mine up to meet him, making momentary friction and drawing a throaty groan from him before he reconnects our lips.   
“Jesus,” he whispers between kisses, getting sloppier and more urgent with each minute that goes by. My fingers release his hair and I scrape my short nails down his muscular back, and he hisses in pleasure, rolling his back into the touch like a feline. He props himself up on his metal arm, his flesh hand roaming down my side and stopping at my hip. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his shorts and tug gently, hoping to give him the hint. He pulls back slightly, panting, his nose pressed to mine. “Are you sure?” I nod, hungrily reconnecting our lips and reaching down to push his shorts down the rest of the way while he pulls at the boxers on my hips, fabric tearing a little. The sound only spurs both of us on further, and he tears them off completely as if they were nothing. “I’m gonna regret that in the morning,” he chuckles breathlessly, and I can’t help but laugh. I shimmy out of my underwear and he pushes his boxers off. I feel him at my entrance and he pauses. I take his face in my hands again, gently, and kiss him lightly, first his upper lip, then his lower lip, giving attention to each one before pushing my tongue past them and being greeted by his own. He presses into me gently and slowly, and I’m thankful. I didn’t get a look at him before because of the darkness, but I would have only made a fool of myself if I had. He picks up a steady rhythm, slow and torturous. I whine a little, gripping his ass and pulling him as close as possible, and he groans into my mouth before granting my wish and picking up the pace.   
It doesn’t take long for both of us to begin breathing heavily, soft sounds escaping out of our control. His thrusts become faster and harder, and I struggle not to cry out as I near my peak. I bite on my lip and he moves to suck harshly against my neck, sure to leave a mark later. Suddenly, my legs clamp around him as I hit my high, and I reflexively sink my teeth into his shoulder to remain quiet. He sucks in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth and I feel the warmth of his release immediately after my own as we ride it out and his movements slow. Sweat beads on his lower back and I release my vice grip on him, sliding my ankles down and tangling our legs together. I stroke his slightly damp hair from his forehead, running my fingers down his back as he eases his weight onto me.   
“Fuck,” I whisper breathlessly, and he breathes out a laugh.   
“I know.” He rests his cheek against my chest and we lie there in blissful silence, as I run my fingers through his hair, until we fall asleep.

I awaken to the sensation of a kiss being pressed to my cheek. James’s scruff scratches pleasantly against my jaw and I roll backwards into his chest, turning my head and kissing him on the lips.   
“Good morning,” he whispers, and I feel boxers against my behind. He’d put them back on in the night.   
“Mornin’,” I reply, and he smiles, kissing me again.  
“I need to go soon,” he says. “I have some errands to run.” He reaches up and presses his cool metal hand gently against my cheek. I clasp my own around his, keeping it against my face and smiling softly.   
“Okay,” I say, releasing his hand after a while.  
“Last night was…”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’ve never done that before.”  
My eyes widen in surprise. “That was your first time?”  
“No, no, I’ve done it before, I just… I hadn’t fallen asleep inside a woman before,” he says shyly, and I blush at the memory. He smiles and presses another kiss to my lips, tender and soft. I try to pull him on top of me, but it’s like trying to move a truck as he smiles into the kiss and expels a breath through his nose, laughing lightly. “Eager, are we?”   
“You’re a tease,” I complain, and he laughs again, pulling away and moving to leave a lingering kiss on my forehead. “I wouldn’t have stayed here if I would have known that.”  
“Oh, yeah?” He chuckles, and I smile up at him. He quickly pushes himself up and stands up, stretching his arms high above his head. His shirt had ridden up overnight, exposing my bottom few ribs while the sheet covered my hips. He glances down at me, a smile spreading across his lips. “Well, if you keep laying there looking that good, you won’t have to worry about me being a tease much longer.”  
I giggle and stretch my arms above my head, crossing one leg over the other and twisting, cracking my spine. James groans and drops back down to his knees on the mattress.   
“Now who’s the tease?” He asks, leaning down to kiss me again. “But really, I need to go in a few minutes. I don’t really have time to make us breakfast. We ended up sleeping longer than I thought.” He sits back on his ankles, his right hand trailing down my side absentmindedly. I squirm as he accidentally tickles me and he grins, but doesn’t repeat the action.   
“I guess I’ll be on my way, then,” I say, standing up. His shirt is almost a dress on me, and hangs midway down my thighs.   
I’m halfway done getting dressed in my clothes from last night in his bathroom when the door opens.   
“Emily?” he asks while I’m hooking my bra behind my back.   
“Hmm?”  
“I know you’re leaving, but… Could I get your number? I want to call you when you get back home. If that’s okay.” I turn around and face him, and his eyes drop to my chest momentarily. His pupils widen slightly and he swallows. I take a step forward to close the gap between us, and lean into his chest, looking up at him.   
“I’d like that,” I say, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. He smiles and his hands circle behind my back before he kisses me again.


End file.
